Page 5 of Whisper of Nightmares

It will take time for the flavor to absorb. But it’s the best she can do.

She transfers the second brew to smaller jugs, and is about to start the laborious task of lugging everything to the cart out front, when a sharp rattle at the back door draws her attention.

“Ismene.”

Euphemia sets down the jugs and crosses to the door, muttering under her breath as she wrestles the latch free.

With a gleeful, “Thank you!” Ismene bounds inside with a basketful of vegetables, likely to help their mother start the stew for the morning.

Euphemia rolls her eyes. The girl will never learn.

She retrieves her jugs and heads out front where Cybele is already waiting.

“There you are. I was about to leave without you.”

With a jug in either hand, Euphemia heaves them onto the back of the cart. “I doubt that. Who would help you at market?”

“Maybe I don’t need help.” Cybele huffs, making her way to the back of the cart, but the posturing ends there. Cybele climbs into the back and busies herself with reorganizing their goods while Euphemia continues loading in the ale. “Still, what took you?”

“The ale wasn’t ready yet. I had to make a few changes.”

Cybele sighs. “Euphemia…”

But Euphemia lugs the final jug onto the cart and glares at her elder sister. “I know. I know. The market will open soon and we’ll miss the early morning customers because I was lollygagging.” She hangs her head, dark waves falling over her face, partially concealing her. “You don’t have to scold me about it. Mother already did.”

Cybele finishes wedging the last jug between two crates of turnips and potatoes, before hopping down from the cart. “Yes, well, Mother is right. We could miss the early morning customers.”

Euphemia narrows her eyes harder. But Cybele’s eyebrows hike to her hairline as if to say she’d like to see Euphemia try to argue her way out of this one. She’s right, of course. Both her and their mother are. The brew was sellable without her last-minute tinkering. But Euphemia wanted better than just sellable.

Cybele marches to the front of the cart and grabs the rope tied loosely around the donkey’s neck. “Grab the feed bag, will you?”

Euphemia rolls her eyes, but she obliges. Without the feed, their donkey will become a menace in town—stealing apples from neighbors’ stands or nibbling the hems of skirts as customers peruse their goods.

By the time she returns with the feed, her mother is at the cart speaking with Cybele, with their youngest sister, Atia, on her hip.

“—some wool would be nice so I can repair Ismene’s cloak. But prioritize the salt and candles. Can’t survive the winter without them.”

“Yes, Mother,” Cybele replies with a reverent bow of her head.”

Her mother is nodding. “Sell what you can but be back before the afternoon rush. Ismene, bless her, but—” It’s at that moment she seems to notice Euphemia approaching. She pauses long enough to give her a sidelong glance, the only acknowledgment she receives before her mother’s attention shifts back to Cybele. “Ismene can only help so much. I need you here to help with the patrons. You know how busy it gets on market nights.”

“Of course, Mother,” says Cybele.

“Promise we will back as soon as we can,” Euphemia murmurs, trying to be helpful.

But her mother makes a face as if someone has just thrown a bucket of pond scum down her back.

Without another word, she shuffles away and heads back inside.

Euphemia is left staring, battling the hot sting of tears that well in her eyes. Her mother’s silent ire should be less painful by now. After all, it has become a daily occurrence. The only version of her she knows now. But no matter how many times her mother walks away, the sting remains as piercing as ever. At least Euphemia has become a battle-hardened warrior to the tears, and so she is able to force them down before Cybele even notices.

“Is that everything?” her older sister asks.

Euphemia doesn’t even check. She doesn’t feel like they have the time. All she knows is she wants to arrive to market as soon as possible, so they can return just as quickly. She wants to prove to her mother that she is just as diligent, responsible, and helpful as her older sister. And they can’t do that by dawdling. “That’s everything.”

Cybele gives the donkey’s lead a tug, and they’re on their merry way⁠—

Only, Euphemia isn’t merry at all. Dread pools in her stomach when she remembers the path they’ll need to take into town. The one that’ll take them past the meadow.